Glass Hearts
by Daring Dashwood
Summary: One conversation, two radically different interpretations. A rather common occurrence in their fractured relationship.
1. I: Raven

Glass Hearts

I: Raven

* * *

It seems that Mystique was the slowest to change. When she stalks into the foyer, newly refitted for the day's events, everyone sans Hank is already accounted for, loitering idly. Banshee is rattling off a rush of terrible jokes to Havok, hands bunching the fabric of his pants as he babbles on. Havok isn't even pretending to listen, his jaw set as he gazes grimly at the floor. Moira stands apart from the duo, checking her gun.

Magneto and Charles are, as usual, sequestered together in a corner of their own. The latter squeezes Magneto's shoulder, speaking quietly. When the door closes behind her, Charles turns from him, his hand sliding downwards, brows furrowing as he appraises her.

"Raven. A word, please?"

He shapes his demand as he always has; softly, masquerading as a plea. It sours her mouth.

Her lips pull downwards—as if she has a choice but to obey—and she follows Charles back out of the foyer, into one of the nearby libraries.

The door has barely shut behind them before Charles is cornering her, hissing her name, holding her wrist like one would a wayward child. His grip is firm, yet gentle enough to not hurt; Raven wrenches her arm away easily.

Her amber eyes—her true eyes—calcify in a glower as she raises her head to face Charles fully. He flinches at the sight of her. Anger encases her heart, shielding it from the strife and shame that batter against it. Her glare only deepens, mouth thinning.

"What more could you _possibly_ want from me?" Raven gestures to her torso, to the offensive clothing he had forced her to don despite her protests. "I'm already hiding who I am."

"_Have you ever seen a tiger and wanted to cover it up?" Magneto leans closer, his sultry gaze penetrating her. Her heart leaps as it once did for Charles, as he—_

Charles' blue eyes waver, and he swallows hard, the delicate veins of his neck bulging out. "Raven, you need to zip the suit up. All the way. You cannot—"

An incredulous laugh forces its way up her throat, cutting him off. This is just so _Charles_. Hiding, always hiding. Lock it in the deepest drawer; cram it in the furthest corner of the closet. She was never to confide in anyone but him about her talents. Her confidence was pride, and her desire to wear her own skin for a few hours around the house, exhibitionism. Hide it hide it hide it. La la la la la. If I can't see it it's not there.

If Moira had never tracked him down, he never would have said anything. He never would have said _anything_.

No, Charles would've quite happily continued to flit through life amongst the intellectuals and whores of humanity, his telepathy used only selfishly, pettily. A tug here for a bourbon on the house, a pull there for a free lay. All that marvelous potential, all that _power _she knew slept deep inside him, buried forevermore. A colossal well of promise, sealed when it should have been tapped.

Because anything else was too dangerous.

And for a time Raven had agreed with him; well, at least begrudgingly conceded that he had a point. Some of his fears are understandable. She was not as foolish as he seems to assume she is; the shape shifter knew she'd be gunned down by the humans if she stepped outside today in her true colors.

But at his house? She thought he'd be more understanding, more open to her blue reptilian skin and alien eyes. He was ever eager to spend time with the others, constantly fawning over their mutations and researching ways to help them develop. So why not her? He not once sought her out for individual training like the others. Why, _why_? She was so sure she could be useful. Thoughts of her possible value in espionage burgeoned in her mind, but she wasn't completely sure how to translate musings into actualities. Charles was always so great at that—he was the intellectual, after all. So why couldn't he help her? Didn't he see how important this was to her? Why was he constantly disappointed in her, incessantly belittling her attempts to help him?

Couldn't he just once say she was beautiful and sweet and perfect just the way she was? Couldn't he just treat her more like Erik had, just once?

Of course not. Instead, her gift was his curse, her pride his embarrassment.

Even now, when they were but a handful of minutes from heading out to stop World War III, a journey they might not return from, all Charles is able to focus on is her fucking freak skin.

It makes her _sick_.

Still…he had taken her in when no one else had. His radiant smile had once dazzled her natural form. Once.

In deference to those precious but moldy days, she drops the hostility. Tentatively, she asks, "Are you really so ashamed of me, Charles?"

Another flinch. Blinking back the hurt from her eyes, she turns away from him, her hand clumsily grasping for the door handle that leads into the foyer.

Behind her, Charles scrambles to save face for his subconscious reflex. He looks sallow, haggard. Dark crescents of deprivation cling underneath his eyes like over-applied eye shadow. He looks nothing like a professor at all. "Raven, sister, you don't understand, I just—it's not—I just want—"

"Not everything is about what _you_ want."

Mystique leaves him.

Nothing has changed during the small space of their terse conversation.

Havok and Banshee are still faffing about. Moira has holstered her gun, her eyes now flashing restlessly around the room at everything but Magneto, no doubt waiting for her beloved Charles to return. Would she still love him so, Raven wondered, if he were blue?

Her gaze seeks out Magneto. He is manipulating that mysterious coin of his, and at the sound of her arrival he glances up sharply, the ghost of his macabre thoughts still lingering on his face. The metal in the room rattles ominously with his anxiety and impatience. Havok and Banshee and Moira do their damndest to ignore it. Mystique gives him a broad smile.

Magneto might've gone on to return the favor when the door opens again. His attention is immediately diverted to Charles, and the two met halfway across the room, hearts in their eyes. Jealously swells within Raven's heart, and the final straw snaps.

She projects with all the force she can muster, _"And I'm not your _sister_ either. Not anymore."_

Her glass heart splinters at the admission.


	2. II: Charles

Glass Hearts

II: Charles

AN: Mutti is German for mother (informal). Almost all of the grammatical errors are intentional.

* * *

Charles and Erik change together. There is silence between them, save for the subdued swish of fabric and the buzz of zippers. Charles is uncertain of his standing now in Erik's mind after their argument the night before, and Erik rarely prompts conversation. But Charles can find out Erik's feelings with a gentle—no. No, he cannot. He forces the telepathic tendrils that had begun extending towards the other back into his own mind. Slowly, ever so slowly, they crawl back. It pains him, shunting his power this way, but he it is what he must do. Restraint, restraint.

He hardly needs to pry, regardless; as he suits up, Erik's gaze penetrates him, unabashed. Memorizing every minute detail in preparation for the worst. Charles finds no fault with this; he's doing the exact same thing.

As he straitens, zipping the top piece of Hank's suit (It was terribly thoughtful of the lad, designing these. Charles had tossed the request for such protection around in his head—no matter how he phrased it Hank was sure to concede, but still, it was the principle of the thing—but before he ever got around to asking Hank had come to him, requesting permission and supplies.) to the top of the collar, a sudden spasm of pain flares in his back. He grimaces, massaging the area.

Erik eyes him and Charles is quick to assure him, "It's nothing, my friend. Nothing. I must've slept on it wrong, is all."

They both soon finish, but as Erik heads for the door Charles grasps him by the wrist. The man turns back to him.

"What?" He snaps.

"Later, Charles." Though he's being quite short with the professor, his eyes soften ever so slightly. "We'll discuss all of that later, but right now, Shaw comes first."

Charles swallows and nods, letting Erik go. He's frightened. For himself—he's never fought an adversary impenetrable to his power, what if they mass produced the helmet, he would be helpless, useless—

For the children. So confident, so weak. He needs to protect them, even as they pull away. Already he has failed Angel, Darwin. Who would be next? And Raven, oh Raven. Can't she see that he has always done what was best for her?

But above all else, he is worried for Erik. How this fight would change him. If he won. If he didn't.

He is afraid. Can't Erik see that? Charles is more frightened than he's ever been, people are counting on him, the world could end if they don't do this right, but Erik does not notice. Erik does not care. But he can care, if Charles really wants him to. Just a little easy rearranging, no muss, no fuss, just reach out and—

Charles grits his teeth, scrubbing his eyes in frustration. This isn't like him. It is rare for his power to flare up so often, to tempt him so frequently. It must be the stress.

Charles then enters the foyer. He sends a wave of calm towards Alex and Sean, smoothing over the worst of their frazzled nerves. Moira removes her gun from its holster, flashing Charles a small smile when she notices him. He cannot explain why the sight of the glinting metal makes his insides twist.

He nods to her in greeting before joining back up with Erik. They have only been apart for but a few moments, but it was long enough—without Charles there to center him, Erik easily becomes overwhelmed by his thoughts and emotions.

Charles squeezes his shoulder, unintentionally receiving a flash of /_bangmuttinocoincoingonnaramitrightintohis/ _before mentally pushing back with a wave of calm focus.

Then, so Erik doesn't notice the aid he's receiving telepathically, Charles babbles.

"It will be alright. We will all survive, and Shaw will be stopped."

Erik grunts, not arguing or agreeing, but he is a bit calmer, at least, and that's all Charles can hope for at the moment.

Another conscious prickles at the back of his mind. Raven has entered the room. He doubles the strength of his shields immediately. Raven's mind, much like Erik's, stands apart from most due to its sheer presence. They're like telepathic lures, trying to draw him in though he knows their owners forbid such intrusion.

Raven's mind is a constant whirlpool of so many conflicting ideas and emotions. It stuns and intrigues him. What had her life been like before she had come to the Xavier estate? But no, no prying, he must remember his promise.

Charles turns around to greet her when the pleasant phrase dies on his lips. She has not zipped up her suit all of the way, exposing her neck, some of her chest.

Frustration burgeoned. These suits were not designed because Charles reveled in strutting around like some silly comic book superhero. They were created to protect them from the gravitational distortion they would face on the jet, and to provide resistance to physical blows. Is Raven not taking this seriously? He understands that she is always mad at him lately, though he doesn't often comprehend why, but this is simply ridiculous. He explicitly instructed them to zipper and seal every component of the suit as well as they could. She cannot disobey him now, not when he has to protect her, the other children, Erik, the world as they know it.

"Raven. A word, please?" He does his utmost to keep his tone civil, to tamp down on his worry and frustration. If he tiptoes on eggshells, she just might be willing to listen to and understand what he'll tell her. But from her reaction at the few words he's already uttered, those hopes were dashed. Damn. His frustration burns to anger. Why must she be so difficult—so selfish—all of the time?

Once they're in the hallway, his anger steams out in a hiss.

"_Raven._"

He grips her wrist, because he needs her to focus on him.

She misunderstands, she must because she tears her arm from his, glaring. Charles flinches at the sheer vehemence. Does she truly hate him? Is this just because of their conversation last night, or has she always harbored these feelings, only now gaining the confidence to display them? His heart ached at the thought.

"What more could you _possibly _want from me? I'm already hiding who I am."

Before Charles has time to prepare, an echo from Raven's mind splinters into his shields, and as he struggles to repair them from the assault he sees—he _sees_—

/_Raven, naked but for the sheets, oh God, Erik leaning towards her haveyoueverseen oh stop Charles did not mean (did)not wanttocoveritup Raven sways towards him and/_

Charles desperately pulls back, back, back, layers and layers and layers (he probably should not be expending this much mental energy when they still have to face Shaw today, but he promised Raven, _he promised her_ dear Jesus please don't let her notice this please). He recoils until his vision is spotty, his appendages tingling. Why did he bring her out here again? Ah, right.

"Raven, you need to zip the suit up. All the way. You cannot—"

His sister laughs at him.

She quiets, and then asks, "Are you really so ashamed of me, Charles?"

He flinches. Ashamed of her? Is that what she thinks of him? How could he ever—she is his sister, he loves her—why—no—

Raven starts to leave, and Charles panics, because he needs to fix this, and fast, but he has no idea how to talk with her anymore.

"Raven, sister, you don't understand," He sputters. "—I just—it's not—I just want—"

"Not everything is about what _you _want."

And then she leaves him. Alone, with his thoughts. He cradles his aching head in his hands. Things between them are worse than he had imagined. If only he had looked inside her mind, fixed the cracks before they widened into irreparable crevasses. Damn her. Damn him for thinking he could fix things in a five minute argument, without his abilities. What is he without them, anyway? A useless, crotchety professor who thinks he knows better than everyone else (but he really does know better).

Charles draws a deep breath before stepping back into the foyer. His eyes meet Erik's. At least he still has him (for now. who knew what the fight with Shaw would change).

A particularly strong thought attempted to penetrate his mind. It glanced off his shields. Charles smiled at Erik.

-Fin-


End file.
